Fic: 'Not Working'
Some Jackish thought, directly post-AWE, this is a reply to a drabble challenge on Black Pearl Library...
~ Not Working ~
The food ran out before the rum, so that was all right, but the water looked like being next and he had to admit that wasn’t a good sign., considering the lack of wind. And the compass, the damned compass, had stopped working. Or started working. The wrong way. Again.
It was hot, too.
Not that he wasn’t used to heat, and scant rations, and even sailing the open seas in a dinghy, on little to no sleep. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, wasn’t he?
But the compass had stopped working.
A couple of nights previous it had been. The wind had failed at dusk, and the sea had lost her bounce. As the stars came out, even the swells faded, and finally there was little to choose between sea and night sky, adrift amid the light of diamonds.
Rowing was too much like work, particularly when one hadn't eaten in a day or two. Would've spoiled the stillness, in any case. Much better and far less complicated to lay back, snug, nursing his bottle, watching eternity at play.
Only, he fell asleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream, aye, there's the rub.
Despite his recalcitrant aid to navigation, he thought he'd rid himself of the habit of dreaming of her. Of improved scenery and infinitely better company. Bonfires and burning rum. The way he'd known she was trouble even before he laid eyes on her, slumbering Siren on the sea bed calling a man to his doom. The way she'd berated them all on his behalf, at one time or another, including himself. Of a kiss, reward and punishment, infinitely sweet, and bitter as death.
He was burning. Burning.
His eyes flicked open to a hot, windless morning in which the rum was gone, yet again.
Not the Locker, but so very not good.
He took up his compass and opened it.
A lesser man might have given in to despair at this point.
He was not, however, a lesser man. He settled, and pulled his hat down over his eyes, and cursed the bloody sun, and would have cursed bloody Elizabeth Swann, too... only she was Turner now, wasn't she? Captain and King. Though still that coltish girl dancing 'round the fire in her shift. That would never change.
Devils and black sheep and really bad eggs.
Bloody, beautiful Elizabeth.
He slept again, after a while, and dreamed again, disturbing dreams in which that distressing damsel transformed to a damsel in distress for no reason he could discern. He was muttering about it, and thrashing a bit, when the dream changed and the Flying Dutchman rose, magnificent and dripping, from the depths.
The dinghy barely shifted when the Ferryman stepped aboard and crouched beside Jack. A horrid chill swept through him and he croaked, “Dead?” But it was all right. Will shook his head, his strange eyes dark and kind, and his mouth formed words familiar and comforting, though they had no sound but the sea. ~.~
Many thanks to erinya for the beta reading!
~ Not Working ~
The food ran out before the rum, so that was all right, but the water looked like being next and he had to admit that wasn’t a good sign., considering the lack of wind. And the compass, the damned compass, had stopped working. Or started working. The wrong way. Again.
It was hot, too.
Not that he wasn’t used to heat, and scant rations, and even sailing the open seas in a dinghy, on little to no sleep. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, wasn’t he?
But the compass had stopped working.
A couple of nights previous it had been. The wind had failed at dusk, and the sea had lost her bounce. As the stars came out, even the swells faded, and finally there was little to choose between sea and night sky, adrift amid the light of diamonds.
Rowing was too much like work, particularly when one hadn't eaten in a day or two. Would've spoiled the stillness, in any case. Much better and far less complicated to lay back, snug, nursing his bottle, watching eternity at play.
Only, he fell asleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream, aye, there's the rub.
Despite his recalcitrant aid to navigation, he thought he'd rid himself of the habit of dreaming of her. Of improved scenery and infinitely better company. Bonfires and burning rum. The way he'd known she was trouble even before he laid eyes on her, slumbering Siren on the sea bed calling a man to his doom. The way she'd berated them all on his behalf, at one time or another, including himself. Of a kiss, reward and punishment, infinitely sweet, and bitter as death.
He was burning. Burning.
His eyes flicked open to a hot, windless morning in which the rum was gone, yet again.
Not the Locker, but so very not good.
He took up his compass and opened it.
A lesser man might have given in to despair at this point.
He was not, however, a lesser man. He settled, and pulled his hat down over his eyes, and cursed the bloody sun, and would have cursed bloody Elizabeth Swann, too... only she was Turner now, wasn't she? Captain and King. Though still that coltish girl dancing 'round the fire in her shift. That would never change.
Devils and black sheep and really bad eggs.
Bloody, beautiful Elizabeth.
He slept again, after a while, and dreamed again, disturbing dreams in which that distressing damsel transformed to a damsel in distress for no reason he could discern. He was muttering about it, and thrashing a bit, when the dream changed and the Flying Dutchman rose, magnificent and dripping, from the depths.
The dinghy barely shifted when the Ferryman stepped aboard and crouched beside Jack. A horrid chill swept through him and he croaked, “Dead?” But it was all right. Will shook his head, his strange eyes dark and kind, and his mouth formed words familiar and comforting, though they had no sound but the sea. ~.~
Many thanks to erinya for the beta reading!